Casualties of the Execution
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: The Executioner's Song tag: Sam saw it all, from Dean and Cain's battle, to the invisible damage of his brother.


**Casualties of the Execution**  
 **K Hanna Korossy**

There was a window in the hayloft where Dean had gone to meet Cain. Of course Sam was going to watch.

He made no apologies or explanations to Castiel or Crowley. At any rate, neither made a move to stop him as he bounded up the stairs.

The sound was muted, but Sam could still hear most of it, and see all of it. The circling. Dean's attack and Cain's counter. The restrained power in the millennia-old Father of Murder, and the Mark-enhanced instinct of a bred Hunter.

It took all Sam had in him not to move in when Cain sent Dean flying through a window. But this wasn't his fight, and intervening would only make things worse. He just grew more tense and cold as he watched Cain get his hands on the Blade and Dean go down, Cain hovering over him.

Then he heard what Cain predicted. That Dean would eventually kill Crowley, then Cas, then Sam himself. And he saw the fight rekindle in his brother, the tiny shift only Sam would recognize as Dean found his opening.

Sam didn't look away when his brother turned the tables and stood over Cain. He would see this through to the end. But his vision was blurred by the time Dean, finally convinced there was no other way than to damn them both with this execution, brought the Blade down on Cain. There was a clap of thunder, and it was over.

Sam hovered there another minute, sorrowfully mirroring his brother's motionlessness. Then he turned and trudged down the stairs.

Neither angel nor demon asked him how the fight went. It was probably all over his face.

Dean's steps were even heavier as he stumbled down soon after. Sam didn't know how he was still upright, but got the answer when Crowley disappeared and Dean's knees finally buckled. Castiel also left to take care of the Blade—and hopefully Cain, too, because Sam wasn't going to leave his brother for anything right now—and it was just the two of them, Dean heavy in his arms, in his heart.

"Hey, you did it. You did it. You won—it's over." He cupped Dean's sweaty head, patted his shoulder. "You did it, man."

He was pretty sure he heard Dean swallow a sob, but he didn't look.

They swayed in place there, grieving and thankful and devastated, until Dean managed to find his feet and they staggered to the car. Sam eased his brother into the passenger seat, collected him a chemical pack for those ribs he was guarding and a handful of pills and a bottle of water. Dean accepted it all in silence, their eyes never meeting. By the time Sam dropped into the driver's seat, Dean was folded into the window, feigning sleep. Sam let him get away with it, turning them toward home.

He found a radio station that was playing classic rock, the sound faded with distance, and turned it low. By the time the signal strengthened, Dean had succumbed to real slumber. The victor of the night, he looked nothing more than its victim, limp and beaten.

Sam swallowed, finally able to let the fear creep out.

Dean hadn't expected to survive this night.

 _I'm scared, Sam._

The only other time Sam could remember him admitting that was when he was bound for Hell. And he'd feared the same thing then: not the torment, not even the separation. His worst fear was becoming what he hunted, unsalvageably evil, threat to his brother instead of protector. Losing Sam as surely as if Sam had died.

But Sam was still here, and Dean had made it, and still he'd seen no relief in his big brother.

 _There is no resisting the Mark or the Blade._ Cain had been unrelenting. _There is only remission and relapse…_

 _I'm saving you._

 _My story began when I killed my brother, and that's where your story inevitably will end….Your brother, Sam. The only thing standing between you and that destiny is this Blade._

Dean shifted in his sleep. He didn't make a sound, but Sam saw his right fist clench and release, looking for a weapon it didn't have.

 _Tell me that you'll stop,_ Dean had begged Cain. _Tell me that you_ can _stop!_

 _I will never stop._

It hadn't just been Cain Dean had killed then. It'd been his hope. The mirror of himself.

Sam drove through the night, thoughts echoing endlessly in his head, his exhaustion more mental than physical. Dawn was just breaking as he pulled into the Bunker garage, and the artificial light made Dean stir when the gas stops and traffic noises hadn't. He blinked in the brightness, right hand starting to rise until he flinched, then left arm completing the task, rubbing over the stubble on his gaunt cheeks.

Sam looked at him indirectly, like eye contact would shatter something. "Shower?"

"Oh, yeah." Dean sounded like someone had tried to strangle him the night before. Which they had.

"I'll have the coffee ready."

Dean paused a moment like he might argue, then continued the slow and painful process of extricating himself from the car. Sam didn't offer to help, not because he didn't want to, but because he knew what would help the most. He just sat and watched until Dean limped through the garage doorway. Then Sam finally rubbed his face and climbed out and gathered their stuff.

He was in the shower by the time he heard Dean shuffle in. The water was still running when Sam toweled off and walked out, but he heard no movement under the spray. He dressed quickly and went to put the coffee on.

A night of thinking hadn't really offered clarity or solutions. Only one thought had sifted through the mess.

Their father had once told Dean he might have to kill Sam. Three years later, Zachariah and other angels had told him that was his destiny. And now, a half-dozen years on, Cain was saying the same thing.

Dean had scoffed each time, worried but believing his love for his brother would overcome any kind of coercion or fate. That outside forces might beat them, but his little brother was always safe with him.

Until now.

 _I'm scared, Sam._

For the first time, his brother was clearly terrified they'd all been right.

There was a scratch of sound outside the kitchen. Dean appeared in the doorway, scabbed and hunched and silent.

Sam dished out the coffee and the hope. And, really, there _was_ cause for hope: the fact Dean had walked away from the fight with green eyes and aching heart was huge.

Dean's mouth twisted up and he didn't disagree. An outside observer might have even thought their drink celebratory.

Then Cas showed up, and Dean headed off to bed, leaving Sam with his coffee and his conclusion.

"How is he?"

 _Then would come the murder you'd never survive, the one that would finally turn you into as much as a savage as it did me._

"Sam?"

"Cas…"

And the fear, the distress Sam felt, none of it was for himself.

"Dean's in trouble."

 **The End**


End file.
